


a life in pictures

by Regency



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Artists, Artists, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Meet-Cute, Muses, Recovery, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regency/pseuds/Regency
Summary: AU. Creatively blocked artist Bernie Wolfe finds the first spark of inspiration she’s felt in months in a twenty-year-old photograph of a beautiful woman. The only thing left to do is find her. But Serena McKinnie, former artist and muse that she is, may not care to be found.
Relationships: Serena Campbell/Bernie Wolfe
Comments: 13
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kayryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayryn/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Manip: A Life in Pictures](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21706621) by [Kayryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayryn/pseuds/Kayryn). 



> For Kayryn who made a cover for this story a long time ago. Thank you.
> 
>  **P L A Y L I S T**  
>  **Mae** – Giving It Away  
>  **Sade** – By Your Side  
>  **Madonna** – Crazy for You  
>  **Frou Frou** – Let Go  
>  **Mono** – Life In Mono  
>  **The Staves** – Make It Holy  
>  **Kelis** – Living Proof

Bernie narrowly dodged calls from her manager asking when he could expect to see her current works-in-progress. He’d been calling for three weeks, leaving messages marking his growing irritation at her avoidance. She knew she could expect a visit next. The problem was Bernie simply had no works-in-progress to show him.

At the height of her 30-year career, Bernie Wolfe was in a creative slump. She hadn’t held a paintbrush or picked up her camera in weeks, and when she did nothing worthwhile came out of it, nothing she could bear to see to completion. Nothing inspired her anymore. In her days as a photojournalist embedded in numerous UN Peacekeeper missions, she had chronicled chaotic scenes of political unrest and memorialized moments of boundless human optimism. When injury drove her from the front lines, she found subjects more locally; political protest marches and demonstrations, election disappointments, idealistic coups run to victory. When her camera proved insufficient to capture the emotion of the occasion, Bernie began to paint. That was eleven years ago, and she’d not once looked back in regret. Bernie was an artist; a photographer and a painter.

Until one day she wasn’t.

*

Bernie pulled down another art book to join the fifteen tumbling out from haphazard stacks atop her dining room table. Bound gallery collections; incandescent photos of artfully cultivated botanical gardens in panorama; arresting studies of the human face, fathomless eyes gazing into the lens. Renaissance homages to women underestimated, violated, and enraged. Still life paintings by the Dutch Masters. Ripped and well-thumbed issues of TIME Magazine and National Geographic, some featuring Bernie’s work, others not. A great deal of art that was singular, magnificent, and unparalleled—and left Bernie entirely cold.

She prised open her first edition copy of “We Have Faces” by seminal Holby contemporary artist Ric Griffin. Two hundred pages of human expressions laboriously depicted in meticulously intermixed acrylic paint, set against vivid backdrops inspired by Ric’s Ghanian heritage. He never seemed to want for subjects or inspiration. Bernie had been an admirer since the publication of his first coffee table book; she’d purchased each of his subsequent books and marvelled to see how he’d improved year by year. He’d said the same of her time and again, their friendship born as budding young artists having matured as they did.

Bernie was poring over his third book, “Face to Face,” Ric’s first foray into photography, when she found her. Caught between pages stuck together by spilled black coffee was a woman in period dressed posing before a dressing room mirror. Pale skin and dark, shining eyes. Laughing, pouted lips. Dark hair messily bound in a knot, sooty tendrils framing her face. She held a camera to her reflection—a 35mm Canon EOS 850 SLR, if Bernie knew her tech, which she did. A good camera for its era; it hadn’t spared any light capturing this woman to best advantage. Bernie wondered what had brought her barely repressed laughter about. She was taking a picture of herself, an anachronistic selfie, the description not entirely owed to her mode of dress. She seemed to peer at Bernie right from the glossy page, as if intending to share her private joke. The caption offered little, only a location (Holby City Park) and a year (1994). The model was unnamed.

Bernie skimmed the remaining eighty pages, relying on memory to tell her when to slow down to peruse her favourite images or reread Ric’s most memorable explanatory essays. The woman didn’t reappear and a brief re-examination of the early pages failed to yield another photo. Funny considering how notorious Ric was for wooing his models in the long-term. He’d married, and divorced, a couple of them. A brief glimpse at the acknowledgments only reminded Bernie how isolated she was from the Holby and British art scene at large of her own choice; she scarcely recognized most of the names. Francoise, Lola, Serena, Henrik, Donna, Sacha, and so on.

Bernie put the curious case of the attractive unnamed model out of her mind to make a study of other books. Chinese contemporary art, South African folk art, Mesoamerican indigenous art. Bernie rediscovered many favourite artists here and made note to chase down a couple of former workshop mates when she’d overcome her latest block. Bernie enjoyed experiencing art orders of magnitude more than she enjoyed creating it.

She passed hours shuffling from one oversized tome to another, gold leaf flecking off on her hands, the corners of those pictured exhibits she loved best faded from studied re-examination. A student of art as much as she was a patron, Bernie never ceased seeking out news lessons to learn.

A sudden, booming knock wrenched Bernie from her inspection of Frida Kahlo’s ‘Self Portrait with Cropped Hair.’

“Bern!” _Bloody hell._ Bernie grimaced. She hadn’t warmed to being called that when she was a war photographer embedded with the Royal Army Medical Corp for five years and she didn’t see it happening now. “Bernie, I know you’re home. You’ve got the window open to let out the cigarette smoke.” Bernie swore silently to herself, vowing once more to give up smoking and mean it.

She wavered between playing dumb and opening the door to her flat. She really didn’t want to see him.

“Now’s not a great time, Marcus! I’m—I’m not dressed!” She pulled a face. She’d told more believable lies.

“You know I don’t mind that. Seen it all before.” She’d bet he didn’t mid. Marcus had been anything but subtle about his interest in romancing Bernie over the years whilst she was purely invested in maintaining their mutual professional regard. Marcus wasn’t only her manager, he was one of the only people in the city of Holby who knew who she was. She needed him.

“Not tonight. I’m—I think I’m on the verge of a breakthrough. I can’t be disturbed.”

His frustration was palpable. “You can’t keep fobbing me off, Bern. Collectors need art to collect. Curators need assurances that you can produce work sufficient to support a showing.”

“I don’t need you to explain the process to me. I’m not an amateur.” Eleven years of this.

“Art critics are fickle, as quickly as they found you they can forget you.” Bernie had rather stupidly googled herself recently; she was well aware.

“Encouraging as always, Marcus. That’ll get the job done.” _Twat._ She needed to hire a new manager, one ideally less concerned with bedding her or flogging her till paintings of dogs playing poker fell out.

“I’m only thinking of your career,” he assured. _Oh please._

“I’ll have something for you in a month.” There might be ritual sacrifices required, which she wasn’t ruling out at this juncture.

“I came all this way,” he wheedled. Bernie gritted her teeth.

“A month. Push me and I’ll make it two entirely from spite.”

He grunted on the other side of her door. Bernie glared at it; she knew his petulant expression like her own.

“A month or you start looking for a new manager.” She’d be doing that regardless.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he parroted. “I’m going.” Bernie shrugged at his shadow moving under the door. “Night, Bern.”

She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Goodnight, Marcus.”

Bernie flopped onto her seat once she’d glimpsed Marcus leaving from her front window. She was loath to admit she found facing a spinal injury in Afghanistan somewhat less mortifying than admitting she had nought to show for months of world travel and navel-gazing. _This is a farce._

She dropped her head onto the cluttered table to growl out her misery. Had she run out of creativity? Could that happen? Every atom of Bernie shouted she had more to do and to give, to teach. She just had to find the impetus. She needed inspiration.

One by one, she began closing and re-shelving her myriad fine arts references texts, more out of a need for superficial order than from having gleaned anything significant from them. Fanshawe, Naylor, and Hope liberated in no especial order and so returned. She reached Ric’s volumes stacked three-deep underneath the rest. She fanned the pages of “Face to Face” and it landed open with a tearing _thwap_ on the self-made image of a lovely anachronism. _Model unknown._

Bernie wanted to know her, at the very least her name. There was a nascent tingle in Bernie’s fingers, a frisson of anticipation in her stomach which told her where to point and shoot. It said, ‘this is a sight you need to see and nobody ought ever forget.’ She tapped the young woman’s provocative pout. They’d be contemporaries, if she had her guess. Women of a certain age sailing or plummeting into midlife. _What would you be like now?_ Intriguing? Ground dull by monotony or honed sharp as a blade? She needed to know.

Her fingers tingled and eagerness built a groundswell inside her.

She picked up the phone.

*

“Ric, hi. I was looking through one of your old art books and I had a question about one of your models.”

“I’ve done a few books. Which one caught your eye? I’ll see if I have a copy on the shelf.” Ric was accustomed to Bernie’s flights of fancy and rolled with them.

“Your third, I think. ‘Face to Face.’”

“That’s odd. I don’t seem to have that one. Ah, I remember now. One of the kids took it to class for Show and Tell and never gave it back. I should ask about that…” Bernie had met his grandchildren and knew well how cavalierly they treated their grandfather’s art supplies.

“It isn’t important, I was only curious.”

“Sure. Out of interest, which model was it that caught your attention?”

“She isn’t listed here by name.” Bernie had gone so far as to reverse image search the photo. No joy.

“Must be a very early edition, then. My editor insisted that all models be named and credited in subsequent printings.”

“Damn my eagerness. Must have bought it on its first day out.”

“Always nice to meet a fan.”

“Ha. I’m trying to get my creative juices flowing by reviewing some of the best art and photography out there. I’ve just gotten to G on my bookshelf.”

“In that case, describe her. I’ll see if I can’t find you a name.”

“Fair. Long, dark hair. Messy. Dark eyes. Strong bone structure. A dimpled chin. Attractive.”

“Am I finding you a model or a date?”

Bernie squirmed. “Very funny.”

“That was a pointed hesitation.” Bernie grumbled her bashful discontent.

“She’s intriguing and I wanted to see if she still is, if she still models.” Bernie removed her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. The bloody things gave her as many headaches as they alleviated. “Her picture’s the first to get a reaction out of me in months, Ric. I’m desperate, and not for a date.” Bernie was off the market for all kinds of fair reasons. This woman was someone else to think about, a muse free of the burdens of the only other woman to bear the name.

Ric emitted a noise of contemplation. “I’ll see what I can do. First edition?” Bernie confirmed as much. “Page number.” Bernie offered it. “Let me talk to my assistant and skim the online edition.”

“Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it. And Bernie, just remember, it’ll pass.”

“Here’s hoping.”

Bernie passed the evening sketching her dark lady from memory to rediscover the feeling of holding charcoal in hand again. She was hesitating over the shape of the woman’s cheekbones, the insouciant pucker of her lips. She couldn’t say whether it was distraction or uncertainty that continually drew her to them. The expression made her smile.

Ric rang back.

“She wasn’t in the later editions, as it turns out, but I think I found your woman.” Bernie flipped to a blank page to write down the details. “Serena McKinnie, former artist turned art critic. You might have heard of her.” Serena McKinnie. There was a name Bernie was accustomed to hearing uttered in sneering tones at many a gallery opening. She hadn’t realized Serena modelled, hadn’t given thought to what the woman of countless controversial opinions looked like. It wasn’t any wonder she hadn’t recognized her; they hadn’t so far had occasion to meet. Bernie avoided the most of her critics like the plague and her admirers all the more fervently. Rather easily done when one refused to attend one’s own showings for lack of interest. Bernie painted her work and pushed it out into the world; what the world did with it afterward was of little concern to her.

“Has she modelled in any other books?”

“I’d have to ask. I know for a fact she hasn’t enjoyed being a subject in some time,” he answered, archly.

“A personal friend of yours, Rocky?”

“She is. I’d be happy to introduce you.”

Bernie drummed her fingers on the oak table. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Since when have you ever shied from an ill-advised sojourn?”

“It happened once.”

“You joined the army, Bernie. Once is an understatement.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Come to my gallery opening tonight. Serena is on the guest list. I’ll make sure you are as well.”

“Ric-“

“Under G. Wolfe. Your identity is safe with me, no one will suspect a thing. You’ll get to see your woman, then you can decide if you’d like to meet her in person. I’m sure she’d be delighted to meet a fan.”

Bernie sighed, resigned to her fate. “Something tells me I’m going to regret this.”


	2. Chapter 2

Come 8:30 that night, Bernie was strolling inconspicuously through the artistic crowd gathered at the Wyvern Fine Arts Gallery. She was mostly keeping to herself as she was wont to do in public. She favoured a more low-key approach to networking in general, so much so that there existed a sizable portion of the Holby art community who had never seen Bernie, nor were aware of her given name. She was _B. Wolfe_ , photographer turned photorealistic painter by trade and by choice. Given the often graphic nature of her work, many had long assumed Bernie a man. _Because women fear blood and gore and death_ , or whatever sexist nonsense her unfailing critics liked to toss back and forth like so much steaming excrement.

Galling as she found their assumptions, she enjoyed her privacy too much to sacrifice it for the sake of banter and so never corrected anyone’s false assumptions. The subtle pseudonym of G. Wolfe, G for Griselda, had served her well, though she found being repeatedly mistaken for her own spouse ironic for any number of reasons.

Bernie was politely dodging casual invitations to small talk like the veritable curse it was all while taking stock of the latest in idle gossip. They did love their gossip and while Bernie wasn’t a fan, having been the target of it throughout her career, it did help to know what was afoot as her future prospects might depend on it.

Peering up at Ric and his grandchildren’s latest joint efforts, she overheard one middle-aged artist uttering something bitterly scathing about Serena in reference to a review she'd published of an art installation they'd debuted not too long ago. Bernie paused her perusal to listen inconspicuously. This artist, no one Bernie had heard of and she got around, thought Serena had treasure trove of nerve showing up tonight.

Bernie cast an eye around for a figure reminiscent of the woman in the photograph. Her jaw, her neck, her proud, elegant shoulders. She didn’t see her, chose not to examine why that left her disappointed.

Egged on by the free champagne and their listeners’ polite murmurs, the artist continued to rave. Serena had the gall to come tonight, knowing how disliked she was for her opinion, considering it was in opposition to the near universal adulation the exhibit had received otherwise. Bernie hadn’t seen it, but Bernie wasn’t in favour going along to get along. Art, like music and fashion and food, was in the eye of the beholder. Beauty wasn’t universal.

The artists’ hangers-on hurried to agree when silence threatened to render his opinion bitter rather than well-earned. They had a barrel of horror stories to tell, and that was how Bernie learned many details about Serena McKinnie she didn’t think she ought to know. In his wounded pride, Edward Campbell had much to say about Serena and all the unctuous bile he could conceivably tar her with. Bernie squirmed in front of a self-portrait of Ric’s granddaughter Darla.

She didn’t know what she ought to believe and what she should discard; even pernicious gossip often had a grain of truth somewhere in it.

“You know how it is,” one of Serena's detractors said—Liberty, she thought it was—"Those who can't do, critique.”

Bernie side stepped away from the clique of nattering of sycophants. Eavesdropping made her uneasy. That was one reason she didn’t like to stick around to hear what people said about her. Her critics could be vicious.

She put the venomous gab session out of her mind to take in the rest of paintings. Bernie was a fan of Ric's aesthetic: stark with a touch of compassion, a soft focus on a harsh world. They met when Bernie was still trying to decide whether she'd defy her parents' wishes to study art. They wanted her to become a doctor and Bernie wasn't unhappy with the thought of studying medicine and saving lives, but it didn't bring her peace, not like photography or painting. Nothing made her has happy as being up to her elbows in acrylic paint. Nothing was as satisfying as washing charcoal dust down that drain after a long day of sketching pedestrians outside her father's practice. There were many paths Bernie could have walked as a young woman; Ric had pushed her in the direction she needed to go. She valued that first push even today.

The later the night grew, the more Bernie began to have second thoughts about seeing Serena again. What if her interest was a fluke? It was a flattering photograph of a young woman in the bloom of youth—of course it was beautiful, the woman was beautiful. Maybe that was all there was to it and Bernie should take what inspiration she could from Serena McKinnie of that past rather than risk the disappointment of Serena now.

She was sure this was a mistake. Bernie had made more than enough of them to give them the widest of berths. She traversed the packed gallery to find Ric and inform him of her plan to duck out early. She wanted to thank him for trying to help get her back on track when she was so far off the rails. He was a good mate to have in a struggle; she couldn’t have been luckier to call him one of hers.

It wasn’t simply that Bernie had grown in her certainty that Serena couldn’t possibly be all Bernie had built her into in her mind. It was the fact that in this nest of vipers the last thing Serena needed Bernie’s impossible expectations alongside the burbling resentment of other artistic types on show. she didn’t want to trouble Serena. If this were the calibre of guest at a showing being held by one of her dear friends, she couldn’t have much of an evening ahead of her, and Bernie for reasons she elected not to examine wasn’t interesting in making things worse.

All that said, leaving was easier said than done. Ric was a popular, busy man at the best of times and hard to get alone. Eventually Bernie decided to bite the bullet, and the last canapé, and approach him when his gaggle of fawning hangers-on had dwindled to himself and one other woman. About Bernie's height. Short hair. Bernie couldn’t glean much more of her from behind, only a pair of expressive hands and a pleasingly husky voice.

Bernie interrupted their conversation, repentant. She'd normally never but the crowd was swiftly was giving her headache—the anticipation, if she were honest, but she wasn't being so tonight. Manners dictated she not disappear unannounced.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt. Ric, I need to head out now, bit of a headache brewing, and I didn’t want to leave without letting you know how wonderful your showing was and how proud of you I am.” Ric accepted a conciliatory kiss on the cheek. He could be a good sport when it suited him.

“Are you quite sure? There are plenty of people you’d do well to meet up with. Friends of mine I’d love to introduce you to.” Ric pursed his lips in a baiting expression, earning a fleeting scowl from Bernie.

“Don’t be a bear,” chided Ric’s companion, patiently silent up to now. “Let the woman go. She’s put up with your antics long enough.”

Bernie grimaced agreeably—Ric _knew_ how she loathed hobnobbing—and looked at his companion to apologize for stealing his attention, only to stop short in a fit of heated recognition. Serena McKinnie looked on, head cocked and lips pursed in stifled amusement at Bernie's plight. She was some twenty years older, but no less arresting. It wasn't merely the photograph to grab Bernie by the nerve endings; it was Serena.

Bernie stuck out her hand and Ric swiftly made the introductions to save her appearing unhinged. “This is my good friend, Serena McKinnie. Serena, my friend G. Wolfe. Don’t ask her what it stands for or she’ll bite your head off. I’ll leave you to get acquainted.” He made himself scarce with that damnable smile on his face.

“Ric said you asked for me. Don’t tell me, I made one of your creative friends cry.”

“Actually, I saw your picture in a book.”

Serena inclined her chin. The same dimpled point. The same rueful smile curved her lips. “That’s concerning. I think we could do with a top-up before we go on.” She waylaid a member of the waitstaff to get them more champagne. Bernie took another for something to keep her hands busy now she couldn’t smoke. Serena took a fortifying drink. “Now, G. Wolfe.” She arched a sceptical eyebrow that sent Bernie’s stomach dropping to her knees. “What can I do for you?”

“I just had some questions.” Yes, good, best to stick to the facts.

“About my old photos?”

“You remember them?”

“It must be from Ric’s book. I’ve only modelled for a few artists and let even fewer publish the photos. He looked too pleased with himself not to have been involved.”

“He’s only trying to help.”

Serena looked Bernie over, a speculative gleam in her eye. “Are you related to Bernie Wolfe, by any chance?”

“Pardon?”

Serena sounded a hum. “I’ve argued with many convinced you had to be a man.”

Bernie blew her hair out of her eyes. “Sorry, I’m not sure—”

“Let’s not do this. You’ve gone to all this trouble to find me. There’s no need to start off with a deception.”

Bernie’s shoulders drooped. She nodded, resigned to this conversation getting out of hand. “I’ve met my share of admirers and detractors wholly convinced I’m married to myself.”

Serena chuckled. “Mrs Wolfe?”

Bernie wrinkled her nose. “It’s always awkward.”

“It must be. I can’t say I’ve been mistaken for my own wife before.” 

“I’m not sure anyone could fail to recognize you.” Now Bernie knew her name, the identity of her muse was impossible to mistake.

“Not untrue.” Serena thumbed her pendant. “Tell me, what’s brought you my way?”

Bernie opted for candor. “I can’t create.”

“Ah, I’m not the person to ask about that. I haven’t picked up a pencil or paintbrush in years.”

“It’s been 5 months and your photo in Ric’s book woke me up.” Serena’s eyes grew wide in astonishment. Bernie examined the bubbles of her champagne. “If you don’t mind me asking, what turned you away from art?”

Serena’s lips compressed in a line that doubled as an autobiography. “Life.”

“Must have been some event.”

Serena’s husky voice quieted to a murmur. “It was...shattering.” Her throat worked silently till she found the wherewithal to speak again. “I couldn’t pick up a paintbrush. I couldn’t bear breathing the charcoal dust. And when I could again, it was all gone. Like I’d never done it at all.” There wasn’t a need to ask what.

“What did you do?”

“Packed away the canvas and made another plan. I was always studious, making another whack at university the easy call. After that, when I still couldn’t paint, I decided I should put my degree to good use. Taught first and then sort of fell into art crit.”

“So, you weren’t looking for a new challenge.”

“Would you pick a job where the majority of your colleagues disdain you or fear you?”

“Not me.”

“I missed art and doing this lets me feel like I’m still a part of it. I’m not a sadist or a masochist, as some seem to think—far from it. I want artists to do well and I can see when they aren’t.”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

Bernie shrugged.

“That’s not true. You don’t like the answer but there is one.”

“You’re a therapist as well?”

“I’ve had a long time to figure out how creative minds tick and tock. People lie. Art doesn’t.”

“Can an absence say anything? I can’t make things. Where’s the dishonesty in negative space?”

“That depends what it’s shaped like. Everything you can put down says something. It says you find this bit of what’s inside you acceptable for public consumption. Everything we don’t put down, everything we feverishly, strenuously paint around tells another tale. Here’s what’s inside of me that nobody can know. If there’s nothing on the canvas, there’s nothing you’re ready for us to know–-or judge.”

“What do your blank canvases say?”

“ ‘There’s nothing inside her, just a hollow space.’”

“You’re nothing like hollow. All those brutal opinions come from someplace.”

Serena pointed at her temple. “There’s plenty up there. It’s here–” She tapped her chest. “–that’s all out of fuel.”

“How do you get it back?”

“I’ve spent 20 years looking and haven’t stumbled on a refuelling station worth the name in all that time. Some fires aren’t meant to be rekindled.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Could be it’s different for you. I hope it is.” Her sorrow was oceans-deep, reflected in her eyes and her smiling lips painted in faded courage red lipstick. Bernie wanted to paint her as she hadn’t wanted to paint in months. No, years.

Bernie made a valiant effort to ward off her nerves. “Forgive me if I’m being forward. Would you have coffee with me sometime?”

Serena flicked her a flirtatious look. “You aren’t going to offer to show me your etchings, are you?”

“Not like that!” Bernie was aghast. Not on the first date, surely!

Serena laughed at her sheepishness. “In that case, I think I’d like to have coffee with you. Have Ric give you my number. Somehow, I think he’s got plenty to tell you about me.”

She departed from Bernie with a wink that was rogueish as it was comical, that made Bernie’s inside flutter like moth’s wings. Bernie was downing her champagne to disguise her besotted staring after Serena’s retreating figure when Ric reappeared from the wings at her side.

“Well met?”

Bernie suppressed a sigh that would have revealed more infatuation than her ego could bear. “Well met, you nosy blighter.” She glared at him. “Did you tell her about me?” Bernie tracked Serena’s patter through the gallery, exchanging full-throated laughter with those who’d have her and stoic civility with those who spurned her. She knew where she wasn’t wanted and didn’t linger. _How could anybody_ not _want her?_

“You’re Bernie bloody Wolfe, you needed no introduction.”

“I’ll ask you to tell the maitre d’ that when I can’t get a reservation at Eden on Ninth.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’ve been on the waiting list since I turned 50. I’m certainly not the one joking.”

Ric grunted. “Serena’s very serious about art. You’ll fare better if you’re serious as she is.”

“You heard when I said this isn’t a blind date?”

Serena scrutinized Bernie from across the gallery, fixing her with an intent stare that made the hair stand on Bernie’s arms. She stole Ric’s champagne and drank it down. A grin split Ric’s handsome face in two.

“Yeah, that’s her _interested_ face.”

“Oh, shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to finish off all my Berena fic. I hope you enjoy them! This one is mostly done. I just need to edit it and post. Got some real life obligations rn but hopefully shouldn't take long.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, settings, or stories recognizable as being from Holby City. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.


End file.
